


Vulnerable

by a_secret_scribbler



Series: Fragile [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Complete, Domestic Violence, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, M/M, Major Character Injury, Physical Abuse, Recovery, Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-19
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:05:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 11,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5754751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_secret_scribbler/pseuds/a_secret_scribbler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft, the most powerful man in England, the man who could make David Cameron piss his pants at twenty paces, vulnerable?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Please note. This story deals with domestic violence, sexual abuse, violence, mental cruelty, bullying and eating disorders. If any of these are triggers for you I would ask you not to read this.

 

If Violet Holmes was asked to describe her two sons she would ask you for a large G&T, ice and a slice, sit down in a comfy chair and close her eyes. After about four minutes she would declare Mycroft to be “Vulnerable” and Sherlock “A Hell’s Whizzer.” The description of her younger son would make you smile and you would deem it accurate, but Mycroft, the most powerful man in England, the man who could make David Cameron piss his pants at twenty paces, vulnerable? Then she would pick up her gin and tell you why…

When Sherlock was born she had suffered a debilitating bout of post-natal depression, her husband and Mycroft had spent the first three months of the new-borns life being his chief carers while she recovered. Mycroft took it upon himself to tend to the mewling infants every need, she was sure this is where the seeds of his personality took root. He became excessively fond of his baby brother and would demand his father hand Sherlock over the moment he arrived home from school, strapping the tiny baby to his front, he would take him on walks and around the village, sit with him on his knee while he did his homework and share his bath time. However, late one afternoon, on pushing the infant back from the library in his pram, he was chased and bullied by some older lads from school, they threatened to upset the pram, tore pages from his books, threw him to the ground and kicked him until he bled. They shouted and berated him calling him “ugly,” “big nose,” “fat,” “ponce,” “posh twat.” Eventually, alerted by the sound of a crying baby, an elderly lady came out of her house and threatened to call the police. After the older boys had scarpered, she helped Mycroft pick up his books, hush the baby, and offered to call his parents. He declined further help and walked home with the snuffling baby in his arms and his books in the pram.

It was the first time in his life that he had felt truly vulnerable, and scared for his brother, and the words that the boys had called him stuck in his head, solidified, and became the foundations, years later, of repressing his sexuality, an eating disorder, and self esteem isues. These in turn lead to him developing trust issues, it takes one to know one Dr Watson, building an unyielding façade of control and confidence to outsiders, impressive enough to even fool a Consulting Detective for many years, and the denial of his own sexual desires. He would look but he would not touch. Indeed, if a prospective suiter managed to get close enough to actually ask the man out for dinner, and if Mycroft allowed himself the luxury of an evening with someone he found attractive, he would find the situation utterly disturbing, the thought that anyone would find him attractive left him feeling so wholly grateful that he would find himself agreeing to all manners of things, football matches for god’s sake, that in his professional life he would spurn. He would rapidly bring an end to these liaisons, on the grounds that he was too busy for a personal life, caring was not an advantage, and jumping before he was pushed. Occasionally he fantasised about a life where he would return home at night to a special someone, but he suspected he would remain alone, and die a very rich but lonely old man.

He maintained this belief until shortly after Sherlock and John finally stepped across the line of friendship and became lovers, each time he saw them he would come away with an ache in his chest and a longing for someone in his life to make his eyes shine the way his brothers did when they alighted on his dear Doctor Watson. Mycroft made some attempts at dating, he even got Anthea to make discrete enquiries about a certain Detective Inspector of his acquaintance, although it went no further when she revealed that he was definitely on the rebound from his ex-wife and that he should avoid that sort of entanglement like the plague. Still, he remained cautiously open to the possibility that one day he would meet a man, fall head over heels, and live happily ever after…

*


	2. Chapter 2

 

The first time Mycroft clapped eyes on Paul he literally lost the ability to speak, for about thirty seconds he stood with his mouth gaping open like a goldfish, it was not a good look on 46 year old. Anthea followed his gaze across the room and smirked, “He’s the new boy at Guildford and Jenkins, lawyer, qualified with honours from Harvard, cocky as hell, pretty though, and as gay as a picnic basket. You should go over and introduce yourself.”

Mycroft threw her a filthy look and stalked off to the bar, he’d just taken his first sip of a rather disappointing merlot when a voice said “Hello. Paul Adams, I believe we have a mutual interest?” Mycroft stared at him and then remembering his manners held out his hand “Mycroft Holmes. And what gave you that idea?”

“Well, I caught you looking at me, reflected in that window over there, and, pardon me if I’m wrong, I believe that you were checking me out, so I’m guessing you’re gay? In which case we have something in common Mr Holmes.” For the second time in twenty minutes the man had rendered him speechless. When he finally managed to summon up the ability to speak again Mycroft found himself engaged in conversation with a most entertaining sparring partner. They bitched about their dining companions, discretely of course, neither man wished to make enemies in high places. Paul regaled him with tales of his days living in America, Mycroft countered with some of the latest rumour’s in the halls of power. They talked for hours, it was well past midnight when Mycroft was tapped on the shoulder by his assistant and advised that the car was waiting for them downstairs and it would be advisable to wrap things up.

Paul frowned at the interruption and seemed unwilling to say goodnight, emboldened, Mycroft did something he had never done before and gave the other man his personal phone number in the hope that they could carry on their conversation at a later date. He shook the man’s hand and bid him goodnight, before he was out of the lift downstairs he had received a text.

**Hi Mycroft. This is my number. Use it. Looking forward to many more evenings like this one. P**

 

The first time Mycroft texted Paul was three days later.

_Hello Paul. I was wondering if you were free next Friday evening. I have a table booked at **Le Gavroche** , I thought it would be nice to have some company. Let me know. MH _

**Mycroft. How lovely to hear from you. Yes I do happen to be free that evening, and if I wasn’t I would shamelessly cancel my other plans to spend another evening in your company. Meet you there? P**

_Paul. That would be wonderful. The table is booked for eight, I am delighted that you are able to join me. MH_

**I hope that your assistant doesn’t drag you away this time, I was hoping to find out what you looked like with bedhead ;)**

_I have no idea how to respond to that except to say that it is her evening off. M_

**Excellent. I’ll bring a toothbrush**

_I’m a little rusty at this sort of thing. M_

**Don’t worry, I’ll enjoy rubbing that rust right off. See you on Friday Mr Holmes**

_Indeed. I look forward. M_

The morning after a very successful first date, Mycroft woke up and heard Paul in his shower, singing loudly and rather tunelessly, he pulled the sheet over his head, stuffed a corner of it into his mouth and squealed like a teenage girl. Afterwards, grinning like a loon, he got out of bed and followed the cacophony into the shower. Paul was rinsing his hair and Mycroft slipped his arms around the other man and kissed his shoulder, “Good morning.” The younger man turned, leaned in for a kiss and dragged him fully under the powerful water jets. They washed each other thoroughly, using a lot of Mycroft’s expensive shower crème, afterwards, still gasping and clutching at each other, they made it back to the bedroom where they proceeded to filthy themselves up again.

*


	3. Chapter 3

 

The first time Paul met Sherlock they eyed each other up across the coffee house table while Mycroft went to place their orders, John put a hand on his partner’s knee and said “Be gentle.”

“Lawyer. English, educated in America but originally from Norfolk, you still have that sight burr to your vowels. You have been back in London approximately 18 months, you rent a flat in Holland Park judging by the jacket you are wearing. The designer has a boutique on the high street, you would have no reason to visit it unless you walked past regularly. Her work is original but shoddy because she uses cheap leather. You think it makes you look arty, it doesn’t. You give the impression that you are vegetarian yet spent at least 15 seconds eyeing up that gentleman’s bacon sandwich, so I suspect you cheat and eat chicken and fish. You are bisexual, but favour men, your last relationship ended when you came back to England, he wanted to come with you, you were getting bored and used the opportunity to make a clean break. You have been dating Mycroft for four months, you are keen to take it to the next level, you wish to move in with him, it would save you money and you are rarely at your flat these days. You haven’t told him that you love him yet, but you are planning to do soon…”

“Whoa! Sherlock, I think that’s quite enough…” John said clapping a hand over Sherlock’s mouth, “Paul. I expect you’ve already been warned about the younger brother.”

Paul smiled at John, “Yes, it’s a bit freaky isn’t it? If he wasn’t Mycroft’s brother I’d have told him to piss off.”

John and Sherlock glanced at each other and exchanged a look, Mycroft joined them at the table and the subject changed to safer ground.

*

The first time Paul snapped at Mycroft was when they had made arrangements to attend a premier of a film that Paul had been looking forward to seeing for weeks. Mycroft was running late because he had to make a detour to NSY to relieve DI Lestrade of a file. They were standing in Greg’s office, laughing about the latest of Sherlock’s many dips in the Thames, when Mycroft’s phone rang. Realising who it was, he made his excuses and answered it.

“Mycroft. I’m standing in the foyer, you’re late. Where are you?”

“Oh hell! I lost track of time, I’m so sorry, give me thirty minutes.”

“Christ Mycroft, it starts in ten minutes, you know I’ve been looking forward to this all week, just forget it. I’ll see you at the weekend maybe.”

“I’m really sorry Paul, you know how things are at work. I could pick you up afterwards?”

“What part of forget it do you not understand? I’m going in now. Don’t call me.”

“Paul…please…” the line went dead and when he tried to ring back it went straight to voicemail.

He looked over at Greg who was busily tidying some paperwork on his desk and trying to ignore the domestic taking place in his office. Mycroft forced a stiff smile and said “Lovers tiff, you know how it is…”

Greg smiled in sympathy and shrugged his shoulders, “Divorced mate. What can I tell you?”

Mycroft spent a quiet evening at home alone, fretting about the argument and wondering how he could make it up to Paul if he ever heard from him again. He eventually got a call from him three days later, they arranged to meet for coffee and by the time they had kissed and made up, Mycroft had given him the keys to his house and invited him to move in at his earliest convenience.

*


	4. Chapter 4

 

The first time it happened was three weeks after Paul had moved in, Mycroft was home first from work, an unusual occurrence, and had settled down in front of the television to watch the Channel 4 news. Paul arrived ten minutes in, picked up the remote and switched channels to a quiz show. Mycroft sat up, retrieved the remote and switched back to the original station, he glanced over at Paul and noticed that the look on his face was one of incandescent anger, not mere frustration at Mycroft getting the upper hand, then, as he noticed he was being observed, he schooled his features into something more acceptable, got up from the couch and disappeared into the kitchen, returning sometime later holding a cup of tea.

 “Drink Mycroft?”

As Mycroft made to take the mug it tipped and the boiling contents spilled over his hand, he leapt from his seat and ran to the kitchen, running it under the cold tap for the prescribed ten minutes. It was only when he was sitting at the table applying Aloe Vera after drying his reddened, but thankfully unblistered, hand, that he remembered Paul had neither apologised nor bothered to come to see if he was alright. When he returned to the living room Paul was sitting where he had been, watching the quiz. The mug was still on the floor where it had been dropped, the tea soaking into the rug. The only acknowledgment of the incident was when Paul glanced at him and said “You might want to get a cloth for that before it stains the carpet.”

That night Paul had taken him to bed and been fierce in his love making, holding Mycroft down and forcing him to take the submissive role. This wasn’t unusual in their relationship and so Mycroft let it slide and purposely pushed down the uneasy feeling that was rising in his gut as he showered afterwards and noticed the bruises on his wrists where he had been restrained. If he received some concerned looks from Anthea the following day, he ignored them.

 *

The first time he noticed that he was being controlled was a month later when he went into the kitchen to get himself a biscuit. He had just spent 30 minutes on the treadmill that Paul had demanded that they install in one of the spare bedrooms. It had seemed unnecessary because both of them had gym membership, but Paul had just insisted that they cancel their membership, despite having to pay a hefty fee. Mycroft had just chugged down half a pint of water and felt the urgent need for some sugar. On reaching up into the cupboard he noticed that the biscuit tin was missing. “Paul, have you moved the biscuits?” he shouted, the man appeared in the doorway moments later and smiled “Yes, fatty. You don’t need any of those empty calories. I thought that we’d discussed this last week. You agreed that you wanted to shed a few pounds, and let’s be honest you could do with it, and I said I’d help you.”

Mycroft pondered for a few seconds, he couldn’t remember any such conversation, but it wasn’t unusual for him to zone out when he had stressful situations at work, and he had noticed that the waistcoat that Paul had insisted he try on the other day when they were out shopping was a little snug. Perhaps he should try and cut down a little, he didn’t want a return to the portly years. As he passed the other man on his way to get a shower Paul grabbed at his waist and pinched hard enough to bruise, “I can definitely pinch more than an inch Chubby…”

Mycroft upped his exercise and cut back on his treats, even Sherlock noticed that his suits began to gape a little. “On another diet brother?” he sniped. John glanced up from the journal he was reading and a worried look crossed his face “Is everything alright Mycroft? You do seem to have lost a lot of weight rather quickly. You’re not feeling unwell I hope?”

“Thank you for your concern John,” he said narrowing his eyes at his younger brother, “I assure you that I am feeling perfectly well, never better in fact. I have just been paying more attention to my diet. I fear I am not getting any younger and, with my sedentary lifestyle, I thought it wise to change some of my habits.”

“I suppose having a much younger lover will do that to a man…” Sherlock said with a fake smile.

“As opposed to an older one brother dear?”

Sherlock squinted over at John who had turned a deep shade of crimson and buried himself back in his journal.

“Touché brother,” he said firmly, letting him know that the subject was now firmly closed.

*


	5. Chapter 5

 

The first time he was humiliated in front of strangers was when Paul suggested inviting some friends around for dinner the weekend of Mycroft’s birthday, the older man was a little perplexed but agreed. They began to draw up a list, Paul suggested his own boss and his wife who Mycroft had never met but suspected Paul wanted to impress so he didn’t put up a fight, however when Mycroft voiced that he would like his brother and John, Paul turned up his nose and said that Sherlock wouldn’t be able to sit at a table without behaving like a savage and his doctor friend was ill-mannered. Mrs Hudson was vetoed along similar lines and Greg Lestrade was dismissed immediately because Paul was convinced that the inspector was secretly holding a torch for Mycroft. The older man laughed out loud at this, saying it was ridiculous, the man had been married to a woman for eighteen years, had two daughters, and had never behaved in a manner that would indicate anything other than friendship. Paul sneered and countered that he had seen the way that the man looked at Mycroft and that he was not having him mooning over his lover all evening. In the end the two of them hosted a meal for Paul’s boss, Mark, and his wife, Anabelle, and the evening was spent with the two work colleagues discussing the latest take-over bid for their company, whilst Mycroft entertained Anabelle. They discovered a mutual interest in music and disappeared into the study where they browsed through Mycroft’s vast collection of vinyl and ended up at the piano playing a rather beautiful duet by Schubert.

Paul and Mark eventually appeared with a tray of coffee and mints and interrupted the impromptu recital, Mycroft picked up his coffee, black, no sugar, and reached for a mint. Paul slapped his hand away and in a firm tone insisted that he play some more rather than stuff his fat face full of chocolate. To break the uncomfortable silence Mycroft took his coffee over to the piano and delighted their guests with a faultless rendition of Moonlight Sonata.

Later that night he sneaked downstairs and binged on a whole box of Godiva chocolates that their guests had brought with them. Feeling disgusted with himself afterwards he went to the downstairs loo, stuck his finger down his throat and brought them all back up. As he sat by the sink sweating and shaking he remembered his college days when this behaviour had been a regular occurrence which had resulted in a long stay in a private sanatorium and a very difficult road to recovery. Wiping his face with a damp cloth he decided that this simply could not become a habit again...It did.

*


	6. Chapter 6

 

The first time anyone noticed the bruising, and called him out on it, was the morning after Paul had punched him in the face for forgetting to bring home the dry cleaning. The younger man had apologised afterwards, taken him to bed and spent the evening sweetly making it up to him. The next day he informed Anthea that he had walked into an open cupboard door, she had smiled stiffly at him before letting him know that he had a meeting with Detective Inspector Lestrade. Despite what Sherlock believed, Mycroft knew that the policeman was no fool, so he braced himself for questions about his swollen eye. What he didn’t expect was the sudden intake of breath and the look of shock on the man’s face when Anthea let him in to his office twenty minutes later.

“Jesus Christ Mycroft, what happened to you?”

Mycroft tried to fix the man with a stern look, but failed miserably when he saw the look of concern written all over the other man’s face. “Oh, this? I walked into a cupboard door. I was in the kitchen putting the dishes away after dinner and wasn’t concentrating…”

Greg smiled sympathetically, “You do know that’s what people say when they’ve been beaten?” he said quietly.

Mycroft’s eyes widened briefly, “Yes…I’m aware that it is a poor excuse, it is the correct one however…Now what was it you wanted to discuss?” he turned the conversation away from himself and onto business matters quickly.

Greg scanned him again, noticing the weight loss and the dark circles under his eyes and ignored the question. “Mycroft, we’ve known each other long enough now that I hope you would feel able to talk to me, not as a policeman, as a friend. If you ever need to, you know, get away from...whatever, you have my number. Any time Mycroft, day or night.”

Mycroft fixed him, looking the other man directly in the eye and for one moment his façade almost dropped. “Thank you Gregory, I appreciate your worrying about me, but let me assure you that I am perfectly happy at home.”

“Mycroft…that’s what they all say…”

Mycroft frowned and placed his hands carefully on his desk, “I am aware that my appearance gives you cause for concern, however, please do not confuse me with the victims you regularly stumble upon in the course of your work, I repeat, I am perfectly content with my home life.”

Greg forced his features into a mask of indifference, “Whatever you say Mycroft, should you change your mind, however, you know where to find me. Now, I’ve realised that I have to be in court in an hour and all my notes are still sitting on my desk, I’m going to have to reschedule this meeting for another day. I’ll have a word with Anthea shall I?” he rose from his chair and headed towards the door.

Mycroft was under no illusion that the inspector was in a hurry to leave because he was uncomfortable with the direction their conversation had taken. He also knew that he was not fooled in the slightest and that every time he saw him from now on the man would be studying him for more signs of abuse. It was intolerable, he would have to schedule other meetings more infrequently from now on. It also occurred to him that this thought made him feel indescribably sad, and how he would deeply miss the man who had just hurried from his office.

Sherlock turned up on his doorstep the following day, he timed his arrival for exactly five minutes after Paul had left for the office, and ten minutes before Mycroft would be leaving the house for work. It was almost as if the man had been standing in the shadows waiting.

Mycroft opened the door and stood aside as his brother swept into the house. He sighed, “I take it you have had a visit from Detective Inspector Lestrade voicing his concerns over my welfare?”

“Let’s not beat about the bush Mycroft, is Paul hurting you?”

“I explained the situation to Grego…”

“Yes, yes, he said. And he believed you about as much as I do. Mycroft,” he pleaded “I repeat, and you know how much I hate to repeat myself, is Paul hurting you?”

“Sherlock. Please. I’m fine…”

The younger man scanned him, pulled a face at what he was deducing and then let fly, “You have a black eye, which you say you received walking into a cupboard door, however, unless that cupboard door was wearing a signet ring that matches the one Paul wears on the ring finger of his right hand, then I doubt that the clear pattern of bruising above the zygomatic bone came from a piece of wood. You have lost a substantial amount of weight, 18 pounds at a guess, possibly 20, this indicates that you have probably taken up your old habits of binging and then purging, which is also indicated by your breath. You are not sleeping well, shown by the redness in your eyes and the dark circles underneath. You clenched your teeth when I asked you the question, an indicator that you are holding back the truthful answer, your hands are shaking right now, implying that you would like to either cover my mouth with them or wrap them around my throat. I ask you one more time brother, is he hurting you.”

Mycroft took a deep breath and shook his head. “Well done Sherlock. You win. But I won’t leave him. He was very apologetic, he lost his temper, it was an instinctual reaction to my stupidity. It won’t happen again. Yes, I have been rather foolish with my dietary habits, allowing myself to fall back into old patterns of behaviour because of stresses at work, I assure you I will be making an appointment with Doctor Wallace and booking some sessions to help me tackle my eating disorder. As for the sleeping, I have been suffering bouts of insomnia, again something I will discuss with my doctor. Now, if you have quite finished, I have important matters to attend to, if you would please take your leave.” He held the door for the younger man.

“Mycroft, you have spent the last forty years looking after me, you have seen me at my lowest, you have suffered my deceit and lies, believe me it takes a liar to spot one. I have never asked for anything from you for myself, but please, I beg you, don’t stay with this man. He will continue this pattern of behaviour and one day, my dear brother, it will be your corpse I am standing over…and that would break my heart…” He fixed his eyes on his brother, looking at him as if he feared this could be the last time, and then turned and walked away from the house.

A car pulled up outside and his driver stepped out and opened the door. “Good morning Mr Holmes, are you ready?”

“Just give me a minute Gerrard. I have some documents I need to get from upstairs.” Mycroft closed the door and took a dozen deep breaths to steady his nerves, he shrugged on his overcoat, grabbed his briefcase and umbrella and headed out of the door.

*


	7. Chapter 7

 

The first time Mycroft was sexually assaulted was on returning from an impromptu trip abroad. There was a flurry of activity in the Arab States which meant he had to fly out to Dubai at an hours’ notice. On ringing Paul at work he discovered he was in a conference with his mobile silenced, so a message was left with a secretary just before Mycroft boarded the plane. On landing, he was immediately thrown into a series of meetings which meant that he was uncontactable for four days, on the fifth he tried to ring his lover again but got his voicemail. Mycroft knew that Paul was most probably working, but suspected that he was also pissed off with him and therefore choosing not to answer his phone or pick up his messages. As a last ditch attempt to pour oil on troubled waters, he sent an email giving details of his return flight and when he expected to be home.

It was almost midnight when he let himself in, the house was dark but showed signs that Paul was home, his coat was hanging on the hooks near the front door and his keys were in the lacquered bowl on the hall table. No lights were on downstairs so he left his suitcase by the door and made his way upstairs, a light shone from under the bedroom door, so he knew that Paul was awake, which made Mycroft feel a little uneasy and he suspected that they were in for an argument at the very least. He opened the door and found Paul sitting up in bed reading, looking up at Mycroft, he very deliberately put down his book and sighed.

“I see you’ve bothered to come home. You look a mess, have you even bothered to shower today? You stink, I can smell you from here.”

Mycroft immediately felt ashamed, he was fastidiously clean, but had been travelling most of the day and perhaps did feel a little dishevelled. Paul got out of bed and strode over to him, he purposely leant in and took a sniff and quickly recoilled, “Christ! You smell like a whore, covered in cheap scent. Have you been letting other people touch you?” He grabbed hold of Mycroft’s cock and squeezed hard enough to hurt, “Have you been letting them fuck you?”

“Paul! Don’t be ridiculous…Of course not!” Mycroft protested. Paul let go of his cock but immediately struck Mycroft hard across his face, “Don’t talk to me like that. Now get undressed and get into the shower…” Mycroft shed his clothing quickly and followed Paul into their en-suite. The younger man turned the spray on and shoved him under it, “Have a wash, and then I might be able to stand being near you.”

Mycroft washed thoroughly, dried himself off and dressed in clean pyjamas before returning to the bedroom. Sliding into his side of the bed he leant over to switch off his lamp.

“Lose the pyjamas Mycroft,” Paul growled reaching over and taking a fistful of the fabric to pull Mycroft towards him.

“I’m tired Paul, I need to sleep, perhaps we could continue this in the morning?”

“Oh no. I think we’ll continue it right now. Take them off, or I’ll rip them off…”

“Paul, please, I’m not in the mood. I haven’t slept for 48 hours…” His protests were silenced by one hand over his mouth and the other tearing at his clothing. His pyjama top was rent open and the bottoms dragged down to his ankles. He tried to wriggle away and snatched at Paul’s hands with his own, this only invoked more fury in the other man and he grabbed Mycroft’s wrists and pinned them above his head with one hand, using the other to grip his throat. Forcing his knee in between Mycroft’s thighs he spat “I’ll take what’s mine Mycroft,”

Mycroft was struggling to breathe, he tried to kick out but his ankles were bound by his pyjama bottoms. He could feel the blunt pressure of Paul’s cock between his legs and realised that Paul was going to enter him with no preparation or lubrication, it was going to hurt and he braced himself for the pain. The hand around his throat gripped tighter, closing his airway, as he felt the initial breach he cried out and struggled desperately. Black dots swam in front of his eyes as he felt himself losing consciousness, the last thing he felt was searing pain.

Mycroft woke to the sound of an email alert on his phone. The other side of the bed was empty and cold, he glanced at the clock and saw that it read 7.37am, he was late for a breakfast meeting, the message was probably Anthea. He lay still, anticipating the pain he would feel when he tried to move, bringing his hands up from under the sheets he examined the bruising on his wrists, not as bad as he feared, they could be hidden under his cuffs. He reached around and felt between his buttocks, he was wet. Mentally bracing himself, he looked at his fingers, they were stained with semen but there was no blood, he closed his eyes and let go of the breath he had been holding. He hurt like hell, but it seemed that there was no tearing.

As he lay there debating whether to call Anthea back and apologise for his tardiness, the door opened and Paul walked in. He was showered and dressed and he carried a tray with a teapot, cup and saucer, milk jug and a warm croissant. “Hey you sleepyhead. I’ve brought you breakfast before I leave for the office.” He dropped a kiss onto Mycroft’s forehead. “Are you okay? I was a bit rough with you last night. I’m sorry, I missed you so much, couldn’t wait to get inside you. Christ Mycroft you were so good to me last night, so gorgeous.”

He placed the tray carefully on the bed and straightened up. “I’ve called Anthea and cancelled your day, told her you’re shattered. She said she’d reschedule your meetings and email you with your appointments for tomorrow…”

“Paul. You shouldn’t have done that. There are things I need to see to, I’ve been away from the office...I’m perfectly capable…”

“Hush now! Eat your breakfast. Just enjoy your day off, I’ll see you tonight. How about I bring home a takeaway and we catch up on some television, have a lazy evening on the couch, just you and me?”

Mycroft looked up shyly and smiled, “Alright, just this once. Sushi?”

Paul shook his head, “Nah, I fancy something hot and spicy, Thai maybe? I’ll decide later. I’d better be off. You might want to change the sheets, we messed them up a bit last night…” and with that he left.

Mycroft poured himself an over brewed cup of tea and picked at the croissant before rising, with some discomfort, and heading for the bathroom. After a brief examination he decided that there was nothing that required anything more than an application of arnica cream and a little make-up to cover up in public, and then headed for the shower.

*


	8. Chapter 8

 

The first time Mycroft needed hospital treatment was on a beautiful summer evening visit to the opera. Mycroft had been gifted two tickets to a performance of La Boehme at Covent Garden by a colleague at work, after a successful cover up of an indiscretion by the man’s wife. Paul had complained that he hated opera and could Mycroft not give the tickets to someone else. When Mycroft said that he would ask Anthea to accompany him instead, the younger man changed his tune and agreed to the date.

Keeping his promise to Sherlock, Mycroft had been to see a doctor who had been monitoring his weight and had him on a strict regime of supplements and vitamins, he had gained a little weight back and, thanks to some support, had mostly managed to quit his old habit iof binging and purging. He had also been to his tailor and had his tuxedo restyled, it fitted his leaner shape much better and when he was ready for their evening out he looked in the mirror and actually thought that he looked quite good. Paul came over and stood behind him, putting his hands around his waist, “Well, look at you. I’m going to have to keep my eye on you tonight, you actually look like you could turn a few heads.” Mycroft smiled and looked at their refection in the mirror, “You look very handsome too, as always, Paul.”

The journey was uneventful, Paul had a hip flask which he took a few sips from before they took their seats, but he seemed happy enough, although he did fall asleep before the interval. When the lights came up the younger man woke and said he was going to the bathroom and that he would meet Mycroft upstairs in the bar. Mycroft made his way upstairs, found the two drinks they had ordered and stood leaning against the wall near an open window. It came as a complete surprise when he heard his name spoken and found himself face to face with Greg Lestrade, “Well, fancy seeing you here,” the silver haired man said giving him the once over, “You look really well...I mean...you know...healthy”

“Good evening Gregory, thank you. I wasn’t at my best the last time I saw you though, was I?” Mycroft said smiling, acknowledging the fact that the last time he had been in the company of the other man he had been sporting a black eye.

“No, you looked like shit, but now...you look great Mycroft. I take it you’ve kicked that tosser to the curb?”

“Ah…that would be me, would it?” Paul said, insinuating himself between the two other men, “Charmed as always Lestrade.” Mycroft’s face flooded with panic and his hands began to shake, Paul took the glass off him, “Come dear, be careful, we wouldn’t want you to break anything…”

Greg looked at them both and gave a sharp nod, “I’m sorry you heard that Paul, let’s just put it down to jealousy shall we? I think we both know I’d jump at the chance to have this one on my arm.” He looked at Mycroft and took a step backwards, “I’d better get back to my seat…Gentlemen.” He turned and strode off towards the door.

“Well. Let’s finish these and head back ourselves shall we?” Paul said knocking back the last of his gin and tonic. “Come dear.”

Mycroft felt a hand on the small of his back guiding him towards the staircase, there were fewer people around so no one saw Paul give him a gentle shove. Mycroft pitched forward, arms flaying desperately, trying to catch hold of something to stop his fall. He failed, tripped down the full flight and landed with his arm bent awkwardly underneath him at the bottom. He knew from the pain that shot through him as he attempted to right himself, that his arm was broken. An usher appeared next to him in seconds and shouted for an ambulance. A small crowd gathered as a first aider checked him over and secured a sling around his arm to immobilise it. He spotted Paul, who slid over and crouched next to him, “Mycroft darling, what have you done now you clumsy thing? Looks like we’ll miss the second half and I was so looking forward to it.”

The ambulance arrived and the Mycroft was helped on-board and given a shot of something for the pain. Paul was standing at the door protesting about not being allowed to ride with him, but the crew were firm, told him where they were heading, and made to shut the door. Just before they closed he saw a familiar face in the crowd, the warm brown eyes searching his desperately.

The arm was broken, it took seven weeks to fully heal and six further weeks of physiotherapy. During this time he received 56 texts from Gregory Lestrade, 17 voicemails, and a note delivered personally to his office.

 

_Mycroft,_

_I’m worried about you. I feel that I was_

_to blame for whatever transpired that_

_night. It just seems too convenient that_

_I piss him off and you end up in plaster._

_I wish you would answer your goddamn_

_phone. Just let me know you are ok._

_Greg_

 

Mycroft sent one text in reply.

**I am healing Gregory, please don’t worry. Thank you for your concern. MH**

*****


	9. Chapter 9

 

The first time Mycroft died was on the morning he received the invitation to Sherlock and Johns wedding. It pointedly only had his name on the invitation and did not say to bring a plus one. Paul snatched the card from his hands and ripped it into small pieces, “You can’t go. I forbid it!” he shouted before throwing the pieces, like confetti, in his face. Mycroft pleaded, “He’s my brother, of course I’m going. It’s probably just an oversight or perhaps they are just inviting immediate family.”

Paul’s face was a picture of rage, he stood up from the dining table where they had been sharing a late breakfast. “Bollocks! That bastard brother of yours is trying to drive a wedge between us. I won’t allow him to take back what is mine!” he shouted, slamming his fist onto the table. The surface shook violently and one of the juice glasses tipped over and fell onto the hardwood floor, breaking into three pieces. He swooped down and picked up the largest shard, ignoring the fact that it cut into his palm, and the blood dripping between his fingers. Crossing to where Mycroft was seated, cowering in his chair, he grasped him by the hair and put the sharp edge to his throat.

“If you dare to defy me on this I will hurt you Mycroft, I will hurt you so badly that you will wish you were dead. You weak piece of shit!”

He very carefully drew the edge of the broken glass across Mycroft’s throat, causing drops of blood to bloom from the pale skin.

“I have to go Paul, I want to see my brother get married…” Mycroft protested as he felt the glass slice through his skin.

Paul pulled his head back exposing the bloody throat and without a second thought stabbed the glass with force into his shoulder, Mycroft screamed out in pain as Paul pulled back and went for him again, but thankfully some primal urge to protect himself kicked in and he leapt up from his chair, tore himself from Pauls grasp, and shoved him to the floor. He knew, without a doubt, that Paul meant to carry out his threat and so he ran, out of the dining room, down the hall, and towards the front door. He could hear Paul shouting his name as he wrestled with the door, his hands, slippery with blood, struggled to grip the handle to turn it, but, with a massive force of will, he managed to wrench the door open and get outside. The street was quiet, but he could see one or two people milling around, he shouted “Help me!” and started to head in their direction. Paul was at his heels, screaming at him, he felt a hand grab at his dressing gown. Tearing at the belt, he managed to loosen it and, sliding his arms out of the sleeves, slip away from the garment and carry on running. By now people had noticed the commotion, a couple of labourers were heading towards him, a woman stood at her window, phone in hand, calling for the emergency services. Paul tried to grab at him again, Mycroft dodged the hand but tripped over the curb and landed face down in the gutter, the last thing he felt before oblivion was a sharp pain at his ribs and the weight of the other man on his back. He heard shouts and screams, a distant siren, and then nothing.

*


	10. Chapter 10

 

The first time he surfaced he heard bleeping and noises from the machines surrounding him, he saw blurred shapes moving around and he felt a hand gripping his. The drugs took hold again and he went back under.

 *

Four days later he opened his eyes again and managed to squeeze the hand holding his. A face swam into his vision, dark curly hair, haloed with the bright light streaming in from the window. “Sherlock?” he managed, trying to lift his other hand to touch his brothers face.

“Mycroft. You’re in hospital, you insufferable arse. You bloody died on the table…I’ve had to sit in this miserably uncomfortable excuse of a chair for four days waiting for you to open your eyes you lazy git!” the man staring down at him spat, his venom diluted by the tears brimming in his eyes. He leant in further, resting his cheek against Mycroft’s forehead, “Thank God you’re back My, I thought I’d lost you,” he whispered.

John appeared behind Sherlock, “Come on you, let the doctor get a look in. You go and let them know at the desk that he’s awake. Welcome back Mycroft, you had us worried for a while there.” Sherlock stood up, wiped his face on his coat sleeve and with one last squeeze of his brothers hand actually did as he was instructed. Mycroft almost smiled, but his lips were cracked and sore, and he grimaced in pain instead. John picked up a small cup with a straw and held it to his lips, “Small sips Mycroft.”

Minutes later a nurse appeared with Sherlock at his shoulder, he proceeded to go through a list of checks on his clipboard and looked happy with the results. “Well, congratulations Mr Holmes, it looks like you’re back in the land of the living. I’ll let the doctor know, she’ll come in and explain the treatment you have received and what will happen next. Do not move from that bed, if you need anything press the red button, do I make myself clear?”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow but nodded when it became clear that the nurse was not going to leave the room until he had received some assurance that his patient would stay put. John looked out of the window trying to conceal the smirk on his face at the knowledge of how impossible looking after an injured Holmes was going to be. Sherlock surprised them both by speaking up, “I can assure you that my brother, though stubborn, is no idiot. Nor is he strong enough to manage the short trip to the bathroom alone. Neither myself or Doctor Watson here, have any desire to prolong his stay in this place, so, should he attempt to leave his bed, we will not permit it, no matter how much he protests.” The nurse smiled and confident that he had secured himself a couple of allies, he left the room.

“John. Please. Can you tell me what injuries I have sustained…?” Mycroft croaked.

John cleared his throat, “You have cuts to your neck and throat that will likely leave fine scars, probably low enough to cover with a collar and tie. More worrying were the cuts to chest, and shoulder, the axillary artery was nicked and you lost a shitload of blood. The force of him stabbing your thorax fractured two ribs and also pierced a lung, which they have managed to re-inflate. Your heart stopped twice on the way to the hospital, the blood loss was so great that they practically emptied their blood banks to keep you alive while they repaired the damage. They lost you again on the operating table, it took a massive effort to bring you back, and if I hear that you are going to take that bastard back after all this, I will personally take a gun to his head and fucking pull the trigger myself…”

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, “If you think that Paul will see anything other than the four walls of his prison cell in the near future, then you have seriously underestimated our Father, he has friends in very high places…and Mummy is behaving like a harridan…”

John smiled and put a hand over Mycroft’s, “I’m sorry we didn’t get you away from him earlier, we should have intervened before, when we started to suspect that he was hurting you. I can’t forgive myself for that…”

“John…you are not to blame. I had offers of help and I refused to take them. I was blinded to the severity of the situation because I love…loved…him and more to the point I thought he loved me. I was scared, at first that he would leave me and then latterly that he would hurt me if I tried to leave. If anyone is at fault it is me, I was taken in, flattered by his attention. But eventually he made me believe that I was worthless and that if I didn’t stay with him then no one else would want me…” Mycroft said as the tears in his eyes trickled over and spilled onto his cheeks, “I have been an utter fool and it almost cost me my life. Caring really was not an advantage, in this case.”

Sherlock walked over from the window and gently brushed a hand over his brother’s forehead, “Mycroft, you just put your trust in the wrong person. You picked a damned shark instead of a goldfish.” A twitch of a smile ghosted over his lips.

“I have no idea what you mean by that, but I suspect I should be insulted…” John said smiling fondly at his partner.

“Can I ask what has happened to Pa…to him?” Mycroft enquired keeping his voice as even as he could.

“The police were called, he was taken into custody where he received medical attention for minor cuts. The arresting officer was Lestrade, I’m given to believe he was a little more forceful than necessary, but nothing that will stick. There were at least half a dozen witnesses to the attack on you in the street, it is also on CCTV. He will do a long stretch of time Mycroft, it was attempted murder.” Sherlock spoke relaying all the necessary facts. “Lestrade said to call when you are fit enough, he’ll bring someone over from the family unit to talk to you, he thought you might find it awkward talking to him…conflict of interests. He said you’d understand.”

Mycroft nodded, thinking about how he had repeatedly turned down offers of help from his family and his friend. “Yes, he was aware of my predicament and offered to help, but I kept denying that there was a problem, I have been a bloody fool.” He sighed and leaned back against the pillows. John immediately picked up the signs that he was tiring, “Listen Mycroft, you get some rest, Sherlock will stay with you if you like, I’m going to ring Greg and let him know you’re awake, he’s been ringing for news every few hours. I’ll ask him to fetch someone round tomorrow morning to interview you, is that okay?”

“Yes John, thank you. I do feel like I could sleep for a while, will you stay please Sherlock?” He looked over to where his brother was leaning against the wall fiddling with his phone.

Noting the vulnerability in the question, Sherlock shrugged and sat back down in the chair, holding his hand out “Your newspaper John, my phone is dead and if I have to spend more time in this room I will need something to keep my mind off this godforsaken chair. You will owe me a few sessions with a chiropractor by the time you are discharged brother.”

John looked at Sherlock and smiled dotingly, he could see written all over his face the worry of the last few days. The initial call from Lestrade, the mad dash across town, the constant pacing whilst his brother was in surgery. The phone calls to his parents, they were on their way back from America having cut short their holiday, reassuring them that Mycroft would be okay, even though he could barely believe it himself. He put up a façade of indifference, now that he knew that his brother would recover, but John had been the one sitting on the floor in the entrance of the hospital, holding him in his arms and rocking him gently backwards and forwards whilst he sobbed into his coat collar. For all their spats, name calling and competitiveness, the brothers loved each other fiercely, hurt one and the other suffered as well. Shrugging on his coat he left Sherlock to watch over his big brother and stepped outside to make the call.

The phone rang out only once before Greg answered.

“John? Is it Mycroft? Has he woken up?”

“Hi Greg. Yeah, he woke up just over an hour ago, they’ve done a few tests and he’s going to be okay.”

Greg let out a breath, “Jesus…Thank fuck for that…Can I talk to him?”

“He’s gone back to sleep, Sherlock’s with him. He’s pumped full of drugs so he’ll be in and out of it for a while…Mycroft, not Sherlock…”

Greg gave a huff of laughter, “Glad you cleared that up John…Look, when he comes round again, give him my lo…give him my regards…and I’ll pop in later on my way home to say hello. I won’t hang around, I just want to see for myself he’s alright. Do you think that’d be okay? Not in a professional capacity, just as a mate?”

“I think he’d be pleased to see you Greg. I’ll give him your…lo…regards…was it?” John teased.

“Shut it Watson. I could make your life miserable in so many ways, I have photo’s on my phone that would make a grown man weep…”

“I have a Consulting Arsehat that could hack your phone, steal those photos, kill you with a form of martial arts no one has ever heard of, and dispose of your body in a way that not even your most talented colleagues would find it…”

“Okay, you win. I’ll see you later John. Thanks for calling. Oh, by the way, that bastard has got himself a right terrier of a solicitor, someone from his firm, but I don’t think there’ll be any trouble getting the charges to stick. Perhaps you’d best keep that to yourself for now yeah?”

“From what Sherlock tells me he was a bit the worse for wear after you arrested him?”

“I’m saying nothing mate…police brutality and all that shite…let’s just say he’s breathing without a tube, more than he deserves…I’d better get back in there before Sally rips Anderson another hole, see you later.”

“Bye Greg.”

*


	11. Chapter 11

 

Mycroft woke again late in the afternoon, John helped him eat some scrambled egg and a soft roll. The doctor visited and confirmed all that John had told him earlier. He had his dressings changed and they replaced the bag on his drip. Anthea showed up just after 5pm with a small lemon muffin in a box and a large bunch of grapes. In an unprecedented show of emotion she kissed his cheek and let him know in no uncertain terms that he was not to return to work until John had cleared it through her, that she was taking care of the office and that she had been worried sick about him. She then stood up, pulled her phone out of her handbag, pressed a few buttons, winked at Sherlock, and strode out of the room.

“I think Paul should be grateful that the police got to him before she did,” John said admiring the retreating woman from his seat.

“Yes John. Eyes front!” Sherlock demanded with a stern look.

A few minutes later there was a knock on the door and in walked a dishevelled looking Greg carrying a spectacular bunch of yellow roses and irises.

“Hi. Are you up to a quick visit?” he asked stopping just inside the doorway and looking a little unsure of his welcome.

“Of course Gregory, please come in. What beautiful flowers, thank you.” Mycroft said smiling shyly.

Sherlock pulled John up from the chair next to the bed by his arm. “Good timing Lestrade, we can walk to the canteen and get a sandwich while you visit. Come on John, move it.”

“I’m not hungry Sherlock, I had one of those…”

“Yep you are, let’s go,” Sherlock herded John out of the door and shut it firmly behind them.

There was a couple of awkward seconds before Mycroft spoke.

“Please put those in the sink, they’ll bring a vase for them later, and take a seat Gregory…”

“Oh...okay…right…” He sat next to the bed and looked the other man over, doing a poor man’s imitation of Sherlock. “So, what’s the damage?”

“Blood loss from a couple of stab wounds, two broken ribs, I’ll wear the scars most likely for the rest of my life, but I’m alive…”

“Yeah…Thank God for that eh? We’ve got him down the nick, he’s not the most popular prisoner. When the guy’s found out what he was in for, you know, what with you being Sherlock’s brother and everything, well, let’s just say we look after our own…”

“I suppose I should be a little worried by that statement, but I find myself quite incapable of giving a shit…” Mycroft said with a wry smile.

Greg burst out laughing, in all the years of knowing Mycroft, the times that he had heard him swear could be counted on one hand.

“I’m glad you’re okay Mycroft, you had me really worried…I turned up before the ambulance left and they were shocking you with those paddle things, it scared the living daylights out of me…”

“Yes, I believe I have the bruises to prove it. I’m a very lucky man…but maybe if I’d listened to you and Sherlock earlier, none of this would have happened.”

“There’s no point in dwelling on what could have been’s Mycroft, let’s just be grateful that you’re safe now and that fucker is going to be banged up for a hell of a long time, he won’t touch you again.”

Mycroft frowned, “Well, I am grateful for that. I just wish…” his voice broke and a sob caught in his throat.

Greg reached over and put a hand carefully on his arm.

“Look, you’re going to go through all this a hundred times a day and you’ll always blame yourself, that’s what victims of crimes like this do Mycroft, its classic abuse. They make you feel like you can’t live without them, control everything you do, everyone you see, make you feel like shit about yourself, knock you about…and worse…”

Mycroft sniffed, “That’s why I feel so damned stupid, I’m an educated man, I could see what he was doing, if it had been happening to one of my acquaintances I would have begged them to leave him, but I stayed. I let him do it again and again and I kept making excuses for his behaviour, I felt like…I felt like I deserved it…”

“No! Christ Mycroft, can’t you see? That’s what he wanted you to believe…the fucking wanker…he manipulated you until you thought that you were to blame every time he hurt you. You really weren’t, he’s a sick fucker and I’m glad he’s behind bars because there’s a queue of people who’d quite happily take justice into their own hands, and you’re not well enough to help us cover it up afterwards…”

“I suppose Anthea could stand in at a pinch…”

“Oh no. She’d be at the front of the queue…You and Sherlock don’t know yet do you? She turned up shortly after the ambulance left, as we were loading him into the van. Christ! It took three of us to hold her back. She’d have ripped his fucking head off with her bare hands! If he ever gets out he’ll spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder…”

Mycroft let out a quiet huff of laughter, “She is extremely loyal that one…There have been quite a few attempts to poach her. Obama himself offered her a job on the spot after we'd spent an afternoon with him, but she's turned them all down, say’s I wouldn’t last a week without her and she couldn’t have that on her conscience. I’m very lucky to have her.”

“I’d say so. Look, I’d better go, you probably need to get some rest, you look wiped out. I’ll be round in the morning with DS Morgan, she’s the best we’ve got with this sort of thing, just be honest with her, she won’t judge you, she needs to get the whole story Mycroft, then we can get that bastard locked up and throw away the key…okay?”

“Yes, you’re right, of course. I’ll see you in the morning. Thank you for coming Gregory, and for the flowers…I love irises…”

“Yeah, I remember you getting Sherlock a birthday card with that Van Gogh picture of them. You went off on one about the colours…The florist said the yellow roses would go with them, something about complementary colours, it’s a bit beyond me…I just thought you’d like them, cheer you up a bit..”

“I do and they will, thank you Gregory.”

“Right. I’ll be off. Sleep well Mycroft.”

“Goodnight Gregory. I’ll see you in the morning.”

John and Sherlock arrived back at his room 20 minutes later and he was fast asleep. Sherlock went to the desk and asked for a vase for the flowers, he put them in water and stood them on Mycroft’s bedside table. John raised an eyebrow, “What? You don’t think he’ll want to see them when he wakes up?” Sherlock asked incredulously.

“I think you are trying to be a matchmaker and it’s far, far, too early to think about that sort of thing. Mycroft will need time to get over Paul, he’s going to need a lot of support and probably some counselling, the damage done to him mentally will take much longer to recover from than the physical wounds. Don’t interfere, you can’t force something like this.” John said frowning at his lover.

“I just want him to be happy John. They’ve been dancing around each other for years. It’s intolerable”

“How long did we dance love? We danced so long we wore out the bloody carpet. But we got there in the end didn’t we? I think they will too. Greg is completely head-over-heels, and Mycroft has secretly fancied him for years. They’ll work it out, and I promise you, if they’re not shagging each other in 18 months you have my full permission to lock them both in a broom cupboard until they do…”

“I would like that in writing please John…” Sherlock said with a huff.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little epilogue to go...


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue.

 

Fifteen months later.

 

“Sir. DI Lestrade is here for your 4 o’clock, shall I show him in?” Anthea stuck her head round the door and watched as Mycroft stood in front of the mirror in his office and straightened his tie. “You look fine Mr Holmes, stop fiddling.” She smirked.

“Thank you for your input Anthea. Yes, send him through and could you please organise tea and biscuits, he prefers the shortbread.”

“Of course Sir. I’ll fetch it myself…and Sir…”

“Yes Anthea?”

“It’s time. Be brave.”

“…Yes…I will…” he held eye contact with her and smiled shyly, “thank you Anthea.”

She closed the door and he went back to his desk and took his seat, a moment later there was a knock on the door, “Enter,” he said in a voice that sounded much more authoritarian than he felt.

Gregory opened the door and walked into the room, he was grinning widely and carrying a small cream coloured ceramic pot planted with miniature irises, some were in bud, some in bloom, he placed them carefully on the ink blotter on Mycroft’s desk.

“Hello Mycroft. Good to see you. I bought you a present.”

Mycroft reached out and touched his finger to the soil, it was a tad dry, he reached for his glass of water and poured a little into the pot. “Yes I can see that, how thoughtful of you Gregory. They’re lovey.”

“I grew them myself, on my kitchen windowsill. I got the bulbs and stuff down the market near my flat, I thought it would be nice to give you something that wasn’t going to die, like flowers…I mean they’re nice for a few days, but I figured that these would last a long while, and the bloke on the stall said that they’d come up year after year…I just thought…you know…you’d have them forever…if you wanted…” He was stammering now and blushing, so he shut up and took the seat opposite Mycroft.

Mycroft stood up slowly and deliberately and walked around to the other side of the desk, reaching down he touched his friend gently on the shoulder, “Gregory…I do believe that is what Sherlock would call sentiment, and I would very much like to kiss you now.”

The other man smiled and, rising from his chair, tilted his head up slightly and sighed “I thought you’d never ask….” Mycroft leant in, placed his hands on the waist of his friend and lightly brushed his lips over Gregory’s. He felt hands touch his face, holding him gently in place whilst the other man pressed their lips together more firmly and swept the tip of his tongue over the seam of Mycroft’s lips. He groaned quietly and opened them a little allowing the kiss to deepen. They remained like that, teasing each other with kisses, neither of them wishing to proceed any further, just yet, until Mycroft pulled away with one last peck on Greg's nose.

“I adore you Gregory, and I would dearly like to take this further,” the younger man revealed quietly, blushing slightly, “I wondered if you…would you…I mean could you see yourself…would that be something…”

“Mycroft, my love,” the silver haired man interrupted, “how about I take you to dinner tonight and we can find out?”

“I think I’d like that Gregory. I think I'd like that very much.”

Anthea stood outside the room with her ear to the door. There were hushed voices and long, intimate pauses, so she decided to give it another ten minutes before she interrupted with tea. Walking back to her desk she dialled a familiar number. Sherlock answered after a couple of rings. “Stupid Cupid is go,” she said, before pressing the end call button, propping her feet up on the desk, and helping herself to a shortbread biscuit.

 

*THE END*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That's it. I hope my efforts were tolerable... Please comment if you feel moved to. Thanks for reading :-)


End file.
